


the start of all things

by spocklee



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-05-31 09:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19422799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spocklee/pseuds/spocklee
Summary: how they met, and going from there.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A drink of water and a little pity– it was worth so much to me that I could not repay you for it with my life." - The Hunchback of Notre Dame
> 
> "lotr is a regency romance novel that just went off the fucking rails" -me

It was a dry summer. His father had wanted him to begin working that season, in the rows of dirt that would become corn and snap-beans and tomatoes, the flowers for flowers' sake, but the old man had pitied him after all. It was too hot to send him out with Fred and Sonny, who groaned at the breakfast table that they'd been forced to learn the trade with no mercy.

"Yeah, and now you both still complain for it! Better to leave Sam at the house and save myself the trouble down the line."

But Sam did leave the house, to follow old Hamfast with the quick short steps of a child staying close to a parent, whenever he went to see Bilbo Baggins. At first, just to watch behind his father's pant leg, or behind the flowers, as the two hobbits crouched and examined lacy carrot sprouts, or smoked their pipes and talked about soil. Mr. Bilbo seemed to have a friendly interest in everything, not just vegetables. Sam watched him nod and ask his father questions, but he couldn't imagine that the old hobbit would need to know how to grow anything when he had such a nice house. Mr. Bilbo didn't even need to work.

"Where's Mr. Bilbo's family?" Sam had asked while walking home one day.

His father had tapped his pipe against his mouth, "Well, they're about."

"Are his kids grown?"

"Doesn't have any kids. He went off when we were all getting married, and came back and seemed to just forget it-" he ruffled Sam's hair, "Aye, but that's his business. You know that, Sam? He's a good hobbit. That's all I ought to say."

-

Bilbo taught him to read and write. He had managed to teach Sonny and Fred a bit, before they had gotten too bored of dwarves and maps and had wanted to run outside and steal pipe-weed and smoke childishly coveted pinches of it in the fields. Daisy had learned a bit more, before excusing herself with polite disinterest from the old empty home to climb trees with friends. It was one thing to beg Bilbo for stories at festivals, and another to wait for an old hobbit to finish rambling about the importance of handwriting, or to find a crumbling map hidden somewhere in his cluttered drawers. He had raised them with all the seriousness of training writers and adventurers; but they felt embarrassed for the wasted time. They had no plans to write worldly poetry or see the elves, and they stood impatiently as he went into detail about the best kind of paper or the worst kind of tent.

Bilbo had given Sam a keen squint over their cups of tea before their first lesson, as if daring him to leave as soon as he could. But Sam had stayed, even when he began learning the fields and gardens, and as his shyness faded he would hurry ahead of his father or mother as they walked him to the old Bag-End property.

-

At ten, he was running along the familiar path when he skidded, and fumbled instinctively for something to hide behind, finding his mother's skirt.

"Oh, Sam! What are you-"

His shyness had bloomed a second time; there were three little hobbits in the Bag-End garden, running about and yelling and laughing, while Bilbo stood in the middle of their playful chaos. He seemed to be yelling and laughing himself, when he noticed Bell Gamgee and her son standing before his fence.

"Ah, Master Samwise, Mistress Gamgee! Come in, come in. What wonderful timing, my little nephews are here, somewhere, oh where did they go-" the boys had scattered off and were giggling throughout the garden, in what they believed to be perfect hiding places.

Bilbo shrugged, "A shame, their mothers will miss them. And so will the supper I had ready, stew and fresh bread and some cider, with nice, creamy butter I just bought today and some beef I spiced the way the dwarves like to-" he opened the gate and beckoned in Sam and his mother, "but you two can help me eat it, and I'll give you all the leftovers to take home-"

Three little bodies appeared out of the leaves and barreled ahead of Bilbo and through the front door, jumbled shouts of, "We're right here! Don't eat without us! We're hungry, we're hungry!"

Sam shook against his mother's side, and she led him into the house and stroked his hair. She gave him a nudge towards the other boys, who had finally stilled to take a look at their guest.

Sam was closer in age to both his sisters than his brothers, who had always seemed so much older than they really were. They were gruff and serious and said little like his father. When he played, it was with the neighbor's daughters, who were the same age as him. He was too sensitive to play with other boys, a thing both his father and mother had noted respectively with concern and affection. He learned from Daisy, and he looked after May. The three boys looking at him now might as well have been the hungry trolls from Bilbo's stories. If he had not been frozen in place, he would have run back outside. Everyone waited for someone else to speak.

Bilbo took the lead, "Well, let's eat-- oh, Sam!"

He had unfrozen and ran, head down like a mortified ram, out the front door and through the garden, back home. He heard Bilbo calling after him, his mother apologizing and running after him.

-

-

-

Frodo sat in the window nook, grateful for the overcast sky that prevented a glare from the glass. He half-read the book in his lap; he already knew it well enough to glance it over, and let it wash over him even as his mind wandered. A storm was coming up over the hills, and he had been waiting all day for it to break. There was nothing that held his attention longer than the window.

The plants in the garden blew in the little gusts of wind that preceded the thunderclouds. He heard Bilbo's footsteps musing back and forth in the dining room.

"Will the gardener even come today?"

"Oh, I don't think so. Hamfast has been saying he's going to start sending Sam over. You remember Sam?"

Bilbo's voice was disembodied; he was still muttering and murmuring as the sounds of him opening and closing drawers and cupboards continued.

Frodo frowned at the book, "What's his name? Samfast?"

"Samwise! And likely as wise as you, and with a bit more hard work under his hands. A pupil of my own, so I'll ask you not to make fun, Master Baggins."

Frodo smiled warmly to himself, "I certainly remember him being able to run fast," he shut the book suddenly, "And why would you assume I'd make fun?"

Bilbo finally appeared, holding a long cloak. It had a bit of a sheen to it. Frodo left off being mock-offended and laughed.

"What's that?"

"A rain cloak! From-"

"From the elves," they both said in unison, and Frodo grinned as Bilbo lowered the cloak and sighed.

"This, this is why I knew you'd make fun. And you won't laugh when this keeps you warm soon enough."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, since the gardener isn't coming today, and you're not busy, sitting there rereading the same book over and over again and being quite pleased with yourself, you can do a bit of weeding for your old uncle."

Frodo sighed, more dramatic than Bilbo had only a few seconds ago, but set the book aside and stood up heroically with sincere cheer, "Alright, alright."

-

The cloak, from some material or enchantment, ran the rain off him like marbles and kept him dry as it began to fall. His knees though, planted in the manifesting mud, we're doomed. _Maybe the mud will insulate them, and not just ruin my pants,_ he thought.

Frodo had shed the gaiety from earlier. All the smiles were good for Bilbo, or Merry and Pippin when they materialized out of thin air to beg him to run off and have some old fun with them again, but alone there was nobody to reassure. He relaxed into a kind of faceless peace, and the flowers mirrored him.

He could identify the weeds from illustrations in books, and from the few times that he had stood with Bilbo as he had talked with Hamfast. The man had intimidated Frodo, with a bluntness that didn't seem easy to charm. The youngest Gamgee daughters had run in and out of the house for tutoring, excitable and curious to stare at Frodo from doorways and giggle when he waved at them. He had seen Sam about in the Shire a few times since he left Brandy Hall, in the pub or in the market, the crest of his head lost in the leaves of other people's gardens, but the boy always seemed to slip away, and Frodo had little interest in running after him.

There was the shuffle of clothes behind him, still audible in the light rain falling. Frodo continued pursuing dandelion rosettes.

"Don't worry, Bilbo, I'm not bruising your roses."

"Oh, I-"

Frodo turned with a start; the voice had not been his uncle.

There was a man, or no, someone younger, his own age, in his 20's somewhere, standing sheepishly in the rain. He didn't finish his half-exclamation, and only seemed to start shaking as Frodo looked at him. He was carrying a bag, a bucket, and wearing gloves. His too-big cloak, clearly a worn through and hand-me-down oilskin, was already growing dark with water.

"Who are you?"

"I- I'm the gardener."

It was certainly not Hamfast, shy under that cloak. Frodo waited for a name, only to smile to himself as the gardener continued to stand and say nothing. He patted the mud next to him.

"Good. Then you can help me."

The gardener stepped to his side, and knelt down and began to work immediately. Frodo watched his arms reach comfortably through the branches of roses, and under the wet green rooftops of the primrose. His arms brushed against the forgiving touch-me-nots and left them shivering in the rain. He pulled the weeds out easily, never coming up with only a clump of leaves and a big root left behind in the dirt like a white eye peering out. Frodo waited for not-Hamfast to notice that he was being watched, but the gardener seemed determined to ignore Frodo entirely. It was the shy son from years ago, who Frodo had failed to recognize so close in the rain, when he had gotten so used to spotting him from a distance.

The gardener sneezed, which caused his hand to pull back unintentionally against a thorn, and shake a rose. He winced, though the glove had protected him.

"Sam?"

Frodo said it gently, but it caused the gardener to start as if from out of a trance, "Yes? Was I-- This is my first day here, I didn't mean to-"

The sentence faded out to frustrated muttering at the ground.

"You didn't do anything wrong. I just wasn't sure if it was you or some rogue gardener. Here," he took off the cloak, "take this, you're going to catch a cold."

Sam stumbled to his feet and backed away as if from a drawn sword, "No, I couldn't, I'm sorry, I should have dressed better-"

Frodo was trying not to laugh; he could imagine Merry's fake chastising. _Really, Frodo. Laughing at this terrified young man, like a regular Sacksville_. He walked on his knees after Sam, holding out the cloak.

"Please, take it."

"I shouldn't have even come today, I could just do the work tomorrow-"

"Not if you're sick!"

Sam stood up, "I'll... I'll go home. I'm sorry for the trouble."

Frodo looked up at him, the rain starting to soak his clothes now that he held the cloak in his hands.

"It's no trouble. Please, stay, come inside."

"I, I couldn't, it's my first day."

"If you don't come inside with me and let me make you tea, I won't have an excuse to leave this work here for you to do tomorrow morning. You'll go home and I'll still be here weeding."

Sam Gamgee looked pained, and he fumbled with the fingertips of his gloves, "Well, I guess if it gets you out of the rain."

-

Frodo shut the front door happily. The rain had increased and it was already getting dark. He pulled off Sam's cloak and hung it on one of the many hooks by the door, some reserved by a few handkerchiefs of different colors that Bilbo had tied and never removed.

"Think of working in the dark and cold out there. Your old man would have a word with us if we sent you home soaking wet just so you could terrorize a few clovers and trim something happily overgrown. Wipe your feet on the mat there, or Bilbo will make me clean the mud tomorrow, come in, come in."

A sort of wild, friendly authority had overcome Frodo. It was rare to be around someone so unsure. His relatives were all either miserably impatient or obnoxiously forward. He felt like he was playing at being his uncle, who was likely in some back room deep at thought. In his absence, he would have to be the eccentric host of Bag-End.

He fluttered about trying to straighten stacks of books or loose parchments, moving gradually towards the kitchen so that Sam might follow him. Frodo looked over the detritus of his and Bilbo's home, and for the first time felt a fluttering moth of embarrassment in his stomach at the mess. Sam's steps hesitated behind him, as if Frodo was dragging him by some invisible rope.

In the kitchen, Frodo fumbled about for cups and leaves, chuckling nervously when he almost dropped the old teapot. Sam still hadn't said a word.

"Sit."

Sam sat at a stool and watched as Frodo made tea, and pulled some bread out of the pantry, and disappeared and reappeared through another door with a plate full of dried meat.

"Eat."

Sam looked at the plate mournfully. His hair was still dripping clear water, like dew on leaves. Frodo's whimsical fondness was becoming frustrated.

"Mister Gamgee, I don't intend to poison you on your first day, so please, eat."

Sam looked up at him surprised, from under his eyelashes, and might have even laughed. Or it might have just been a heavy exhale. But he took a biscuit and ate it carefully, and Frodo poured him tea. He sat and watched Sam eat.

"It's not so bad, right?" He said as he lifted his tea to hide a smile; Bilbo might have been right about his teasing.

Sam swallowed, and reached for his own mug, "Well, I guess it's not the worst poison I've had."

Frodo snorted, loudly, and Sam smiled, and they both were surprised at each other and themselves, and it made them laugh together.

"What's this- Sam! It's you!"

Bilbo was in the doorway. Frodo turned to see him, and when he looked back at Sam he saw that the gardener had lost his tension. He was surprised at his envy of his uncle's familiarity. Bilbo came forward and walked around the table, grabbing a piece of cake on his way, and clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam was bashful but now seemed pleased to be so.

"I wish I knew you were visiting! It's been too long, my boy!"

Sam fumbled with his mug, "Ah, I'm not so much visiting, I came to do some work on the garden-"

Bilbo looked out the window at the rain, "What garden? The only thing out there now is the flood, and everyone would prefer you safe inside rather than floating about out there," he reached out and pinched the cloth of Frodo's sleeve, "and I'm sure my nephew here was quick to drag you inside as an excuse to leave his own work."

Frodo put his hand to his chest, "I was worried about him getting a cold!"

Bilbo gave him a doubtful glance, and looked at Sam for an answer. Sam looked between the two of them and then shook his head with wide eyes.

"Oh, honest, Mister Bilbo, he really was. He even tried to give me his cloak. And he was, he was hard at work when I found him."

Bilbo looked at him carefully, and then saw the gleeful victory on Frodo's face and scowled, "Oh, I'm sure he was."

Frodo and Sam both laughed, and Bilbo sat down and joined them.

-

Sam came home the next morning, in the content mud and pink dawn light after the storm. The plants were still trembling as they dropped water on each other. He paused at his front door, and then opened it slowly.

There were the sounds of plates and crockery from the kitchen. His mother's voice, already in the middle of scolding his siblings, called out.

"Sam? Sam, is that you?"

He left his coat in the front hallway, dried by the fire that Bilbo had insisted on last night. He walked past the charcoal-pencil portraits on the wall of great-grandparents, the bags of his father and brothers' tools, the empty space where he placed his own, and poked his head into the dining room. His siblings were running back and forth from the kitchen on the other side of the room to set the table. His mother was handing them the plates of food.

"Good morning, everyone."

"Sam! Just in time for breakfast. Sit down."

Marigold whined, "He didn't even help!"

"Ah, you're right-- Sam, take the pitcher. Everyone else, sit down. Oh, where's your father?"

"I'm here, I'm here," the man in question appeared through the kitchen's other door, and brushed his palm against the heads of shorter children and across the backs of the rest. He sat down and nodded offhand at Sam as he pulled a bowl of berries close to him.

"When did you get home?"

Bell, finished directing the children about, sat down at the other head of the table, "Just now. Everyone, everyone sit and eat."

Hamfast buttered some bread, and set it on May's plate as if he no longer wanted it, "So, old Bilbo let you stay the night, eh?"

Bell replied before Sam could, "As he ought to! Imagine sending him home in the weather last night. Did he make you work?"

Sam smiled to his plate on thinking of what Bilbo and Frodo had both said about getting in trouble if they made him stay in the rain, and then shook his head, "Ah, no, no, they made me come inside."

Hamfast spoke skillfully through a mouthful of bacon and over the sounds of plates shuffling about the table, "First day and they're already spoiling you. A little rain won't hurt."

Bell scowled, "He's still only a boy."

Sonny interrupted, "Sam, is Bilbo still off his rocker?"

"Sonny!"

"What?"

Sam frowned, "I, uh, no, he was the same."

The table ignored him, and Fred idly cleaned a bit of tea that Marigold had spilled, "C'mon, ma, you don't even like Mister Bilbo."

Bell set her hands on the table, "I... However I feel, it doesn't mean you can say such things. It isn't polite."

Daisy, with an eager maturity, chimed in, "They say worse things at the pub."

Fred again, "Yeah, ma, what about that time you said the Baggins all think they're so much better than everyone just because they have a bit more space and a bit less common sense?"

The table erupted into laughter, except for Sam and his parents. Bell looked furious.

"A thing you shouldn't have overheard and you'd do best to forget!"

Sam put his fork down, "What do they say at the pub?"

"Nothing of importance-"

"They say old Bilbo got all his money from thieving!"

"They say he's cursed and he has a dwarf wife who lives in the mountains!"

"Peridot said her mum said that Mister Frodo's parents killed each other."

The table fell silent. It was Marigold who'd spoken, and who looked about her innocently at the horrified faces. Hamfast and Bell glanced at each other. Sam felt sick.

Bell stood up, "Marigold, that's cruel gossip, and this family, this _whole_ family," and at this word she looked about the table with a sharp eye, "is above such cruelty. There are some folks who like to say hurtful things because they have nothing better to say and would stop breathing sooner than they'd stop talking. However I feel about the Baggins, what happened to Drogo and Primula, rest their souls, was an accident. If I catch any of you spreading that horrid rumor then you'll be doing chores until your hands fall off. Understood?"

The children nodded awkwardly, although Marigold made to speak up again before Daisy put a hand on her wrist to stop her. Sam's tea tasted bitter, and he excused himself from the table.

Later, Hamfast found Sam in his room, sitting on his bed.

"You gonna go to Bag-End today?"

Sam bit his lip, and couldn't answer.

"I can go today, in your stead. But you know, Mister Bilbo sure was looking forward to you being the new gardener, and meeting that nephew of his."

Sam shook his head, staring hard at something on the floor.

"Eventually, you ought to go."

"Dad," he didn't understand why it was so hard even to say, "they were both so kind to me. Why am I so afraid to talk to them now?"

Hamfast sat on the bed with a sigh, "Well, you're soft."

Sam lowered his head, ashamed. Hamfast huffed.

"Not a bad thing, son. You're just tenderhearted. And now you got that gossip floating around in your head and you're afraid it's gonna show on your face. You're scared you're gonna hurt those folks somehow, that's all."

"I should go."

"You should. But it doesn't have to be today," Hamfast rested a broad palm over Sam's back as he stood back up, "Just remember. At a certain point, you're only being tenderhearted to save yourself some trouble. Bilbo and his nephew would be more put out by you never showing yourself again than they would be by a little gossip I'm sure they've already heard."

Sam looked up sharply, "Already heard? Who would say that kind of thing to them?"

Hamfast shrugged, "Folks who want to seem kinder than they are. Folks who could use a little more softness, some would say. Now, it's time I get going. I bet I have plenty of work to do."

-

-

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the doubletake i fucking did when i found out that apparently it's canon that people gossiped that frodo's parents KILLED EACH OTHER? jesus howard christ. play 'concerning hobbits' over that conversation


	2. Chapter 2

For a week, Sam tended other gardens, and crouched low in the spring rows of wheat and barley. Every morning his father would ask if he would go today, and he would say no. He sensed a lesson waiting to be said, but every time so far his father had glanced away and left without a word. When Bell would ask how the day went, Hamfast would never mention if Sam had been missed.

Over a stack of red apples in the market, the decision came to him without his father's asking. There was the dim sense of a ruckus behind him, in the other stands of fruits and vegetables, but it was still only weaving in the air before the sound of his name caught him with his money still in hand.

"Sam!"

He turned. It was Frodo, already walking up to him. He was beaming, which simply seemed his natural state. Sam felt the nervousness, the awkward uselessness of his own hands, all the discomfort he'd predicted. He also felt happy, in a distant sense, the same way he still heard the sounds of yelling and falling and laughing somewhere else in the market.

"Hello, Mister Frodo."

Frodo furrowed his brows, but didn't stop smiling. He picked up an apple and rolled it between his hands, ignoring the watchful gaze of the vendor who Sam had been about to pay.

"'Mister'? Where have you been? Have you quit being a gardener?"

"I- No," he ducked his head, already guilty, "I've been working at other gardens."

He looked up, and chanced to see a flash in Frodo's expression- something a little more appraising, a little more knowing. Almost amused, maybe disappointed. What did he suspect? The cheerful smile returned, but muted, filtered through something like a sneer.

"My uncle misses you. I hope you're not too busy to see him again."

"I-" Sam felt sick, but was interrupted by a commotion at the cart across from them. They both turned to see that two hobbits had crashed into a pyramid of cabbage, roughhousing, or simply careless, and we're giggling uncontrollably as the cart's owner began demanding payment.

Sam barely hid his annoyance, but Frodo just laughed, the filter from before falling away.

"Merry, Pippin!"

"Oh, Frodo, I was just looking for you, Meriadoc here has a list of trouble, trying to steal carrots, trying to drink in the middle of the day-"

"You have twice as long a list and you're half as successful at all of it, Pippin!"

Frodo set the apple back down, still smiling warmly, "I can't go anywhere with you two."

"You can, that's where this whole problem started!" The three of them started laughing, and Sam edged closer to the apple seller, to pick a side in all the nonsense. The cabbage seller was yelling now, to be heard over the three hobbits' banter. They were oblivious, or at least feigning to be, to the trouble they'd caused. It made him uneasy. They managed to notice him over their own cackling.

"Who's your friend over here?"

Sam had a vague recognition of the two of them. They lived off somewhere in Buckland, though he felt he saw them more often than he would have guessed wandering throughout Westfarthing. Perhaps it was easier to cause havoc far from home. The one named Merry was still looking at him, waiting for an answer from Frodo.

"He's Samwise, Hamfast's son."

He stood up straighter without meaning to; it was unusual to hear someone his own age refer so casually to his father. Pippin squinted.

"Hamfast? Where? How fast? Goodness, I'm hungry."

"Hamfast Gamgee, my uncle's gardener. But Sam's taking over for him, right, Sam?"

He threw a private smile in Sam's direction, who couldn't guess if he was in on the joke or the center of it. Sam shrugged. He felt less shy now that he cared less what they thought, though he longed to end the conversation and escape back home.

"I suppose."

Merry tilted his head, "Already working? You're our age, aren't you?"

Frodo affected a matronly tone, only playfully chiding, " _Some_ people actually work."

Pippin scratched his neck, "Sounds awful. You have my sympathy, Samwise."

Frodo shook his head, and walked up to the cabbage seller. Sam watched him pull a purse out of his trousers, his voice innocent and careless.

"How much for the damage?"

By the time he had paid for the damages and turned around, Sam had already disappeared.

-

Sam stormed back into the house. His mother, as usual, called from the kitchen.

"Sam? Did you get the apples?"

He hadn't. He'd left them behind on the cart counter. He froze in the doorway, already deserted by his anger.

"No... Sorry."

She walked into the front hallway, wiping a bread pan dry with a rag, "You alright?"

He sighed. She nodded and tilted her head to the kitchen as she walked back into it.

"Well, come on then. We can make a pie with something else then."

Sam followed her, past the dining table with the old unvarnished chairs and the inevitable shoe prints on the floor, through the circular archway that was behind his father's seat and had always framed his aging body with the haloed background of the kitchen. It was empty now, only being the middle of the day. His siblings and father were out, all doing their own chores and wanderings not too far from home. His mother had set the bread pan down and was shuffling flour out of her hands onto a cloth spread out on the counter. Sam leaned on the wall opposite of her, avoiding hitting his head on the rack of spices and herbs. Her back was still turned to him as she started cutting butter off a block from the icebox, and then into pieces.

"Something must be on your mind that isn't apples."

He bit his lip, "I guess."

"Trouble in the market?"

"What you said about the Baggins..." she turned around to look at him, surprised at the topic, "Did you mean it? When you said they had more money and less sense?"

She frowned, and turned back to pouring flour over the butter, "You know I said to forget that, Samwise."

"But it's true!"

"Sam!"

"Well, maybe not Mister Bilbo but... his nephew, and those two others of his... they're my age and all they do is run about and cause trouble."

He was surprised by the smile he could hear in his mother's voice, "You sound like your father already. Although..." she turned, and her eyes were more serious, "I know we raised you to be good, Sam. You're a wonderful son. But it's all right if you get into a bit of trouble yourself sometimes. Your brothers and sisters too. Just not too much!"

She started kneading all the ingredients together, her shoulders rolling heavily as she muttered, "You're not wrong though... those children think they invented rule-breaking just because they have nothing better to do... now me and your father! That was some real trouble..."

-

Sam told his father that he'd go back to the Baggins garden, and with no sign of approval or otherwise, his father grunted and Sam walked the short path to Bag-End.

Bilbo was drinking some tea at his front door, looking wistful, and blinked out of his reverie when Sam opened the front gate.

"Ah, Master Gamgee the younger! Thank goodness, I thought you might have escaped on some grand adventure and left behind my poor garden to the care of two old hobbits."

"Not quite, Mr. Bilbo," he shifted the bag on his shoulder, "Is there anything in particular that needs tending?"

"Yes, yes, come this way, I've been uncertain about these red poppies, your father assures me they're fine but I'm not so sure..."

"Where's Mr. Frodo?"

"Hm? Oh, he's out reading somewhere. He disappears for hours like that, out in the woods. I can never sit still anywhere that's not a good armchair, it must be from Drogo's side. Now come along, I've been losing sleep over these tulips as well..."

-

Sam settled into the Bag-End garden as his own. The flowers, the dark soil, the bees he indulged to taste the weeds before he pulled them up; it was all his, in a way. If it was Mr. Bilbo's, he seemed uninterested in begrudging Sam anything. Bilbo knew it was really Sam's garden, because he cared for it. Sam kept other gardens and little fields in the Shire, adding them to his list of the day, but he began and ended with Bag-End.

Still, he could not be tempted inside for tea or supper again, unless there was some mention that the young Baggins was off in Brandy Hall or Buckwood.

-

"You frightened off Master Samwise, didn't you?"

Frodo wrapped the scones and chestnuts he'd picked out of the pantry in a napkin with renewed speed, "I have no idea what you mean."

"Hm. Just seems strange, that you got along so well and then he disappears for a week, and then you seem to always be out of the house when he's working..." he drifted off, and puffed at his pipe absently while looking out the window. It was still early dawn, and Sam would be in the garden any minute. Frodo hurried through the sitting room, looking for his book.

He looked under the piles of other tomes stacked up, the frail maps laid out-- hadn't he just left it on the end table with the lace tablecloth? He had already slept longer than he'd liked, lured by some dream that had since melted away. He clattered through plates and cups with food and drink still forgotten on them and waited for Bilbo to say something. When nothing came, he looked up, and Bilbo was still squinting out the window.

"What?"

"I didn't say anything, anything else."

"Exactly. Uncle, the only time I'm worried is when you _don't_ say something. What is it?"

Another puff of smoke, and Frodo was glad to see that the window had been opened to let it free in the cold morning air. He was standing on a creaking chair in order to get to a high shelf, and from his height he could see the red embers burn thoughtfully in the crater of his uncle's pipe.

"I would be disappointed to find you looking down on good people. Samwise is a kind boy. He may not be like your other friends--"

Frodo stepped heavily off the chair, "Kind? I saw him at the market, and he ran off when my back was turned. The week before that-- I hadn't done anything! I was perfectly friendly that night, and he--"

He stopped. He realized he had been losing his humor as he spoke louder and louder, and his uncle was looking at him soberly, tapping his pipe against his lip. He seemed about to say something, when his eye shifted back to the window.

"Ah, he's here. If you're looking for your book, I have it here," he held it up with his other hand, the ghost of a childish smile on his face.

Frodo snatched it out of his hand, and ran to the front door, skidding as he doubled back to grab his bag of food that almost spilled, and opened the front door as boldly as he dared before hurtling over the threshold.

He saw him, after he'd passed the front gate and was already letting his momentum carry him down the walking path. He was on the other side of the fence, his hair visible among the green leaves like the coat of a deer in the forest. He looked up as Frodo passed by without stopping, and they both stared at each other uncertainly, cautiously, before looking away.

-

Frodo came home in the evening, when it was still light enough outside to see the silhouette of everything, but dark enough that his shadow had already gone to bed. The air smelled sweet, and he walked by the garden with relief to know it was empty by now. The gardener had gone home, and never stayed for dinner. Still, there was the smell of food from the windows, and he could hear Bilbo talking to someone inside. A familiar, growling kind of voice answered back, like a river rumbling and knocking over stones, and Frodo rushed for the front door on hearing it.

He hung his jacket next to the cloak he'd already expected to see, too long for any hobbit, and rushed past the crackling fire in the sitting room to the kitchen table.

"Gandalf!"

There he was, curved over to avoid the ceiling beams, like a dull crescent moon standing in their home. Frodo barreled him with a hug, and was rewarded with being spun around, as Bilbo could be heard saying, "Watch out for the table!"

"It's good to see you, Frodo."

"Where have you been?"

As expected, the old wizard only hemmed and hawed and muttered, "Oh, about, about, nearby and far."

Frodo sat down at the table, leaning over it and too happy to grab any of the food spread out, "A more detailed answer than I expected."

Bilbo filled a cup and pushed it towards him, the steam rising like a morning fog, "Nearby and Far! Two places we get to hear about, lucky us."

Gandalf laughed into his pipe, and the smoke puffed cloud by cloud accordingly. He didn't reply, only smiled and looked at something in the air, where some past or future thought drifted like the steam from the tea or the smoke from the pipes. Bilbo would often do the same thing, and Frodo wondered if they were seeing the same memories, the same ideas, or if there was only something about adventures that had to be reflected on for the rest of one's life, whenever one could.

-

Eventually Gandalf claimed he'd told all the stories he could remember, and Frodo sat at the table and watched him and his uncle quietly and contentedly blow smoke rings. His foot tapped impatiently at the bottom rung of the stool he sat on.

"I know you two think you're very clever, and that as soon as I go to bed you'll be telling all kinds of private stories and jokes."

Gandalf raised his eyebrows and shrugged, and Bilbo chuckled and absently reached for a biscuit only to find an empty plate. He sighed and rubbed his knuckles on his vest with the same distracted air.

"I'm sorry, Frodo, but once the dragon story is told for all it's worth, you'll find your uncle to be a very boring hobbit."

Gandalf's wrinkled eyes slid sideways to glance at Bilbo as he spoke, as if to disagree on some suspicion of his, but he said nothing. Frodo threw his hands on the table and stood up.

"Fine! I'm off to bed. I'll see you both in the morning, and if Gandalf tries to make an escape in the night without having breakfast with us, I'll have to chase him down on Fatty's pony."

Gandalf murmured, "Perhaps you'll dream of something more exciting than two old adventurers smoking in your uncle's kitchen, and dream instead of three."

Frodo walked off to his room, followed by the laughter of old friends.

-

He woke up in the middle of the night. His eyes adjusted to the pitch darkness, and he threw off the covers that felt too warm. He lay there, enjoying the cool and black air, and realized he heard faint voices.

He lay in bed with a more deliberate stillness and listened. It was his uncle and Gandalf still talking, although he could not make out the words. There was the occasional lengthy pause, and none of the laughter from before, suggesting that heavier conversation had been saved for these later hours.

Frodo slid out of bed, and snuck towards the kitchen without true fear of being caught. He had never been punished for a curious ear or eye; Bilbo had never had the heart to even reprimand him very seriously. He walked slowly only so that he might eavesdrop on some talk that would disappear like lightning if they knew he was awake. If they caught him, they would make their jokes and wait again until he went back off to sleep.

He came to the hall archway of the dining room, and found it was still hard to hear the words. He edged closer, through the arch and against the wall, at an angle that was hidden from the entry into the kitchen. The voices, quiet and serious, were clearer now, though he could not see them from his own hiding place.

"... and the world, it's no place for a hobbit to go."

"Ah, yes, and so all your stories about dwarves and elves are just tales you made up to explain all the dwarvish and elvish treasure you have."

"You know what I mean! It wasn't even a place I should have gone to, necessarily."

"Would you change it, if you could? And never have gone?"

Frodo was conscious of his chest aching at the idea that Bilbo's adventures were never as beloved as he professed, but Bilbo's answer was quick.

"No. No, of course not... but it changes a person, in a way that can't be unchanged."

"You are arguing with yourself at this point, friend."

"I only brought up you taking Frodo along with you somewhere as a joke, I could hardly trust you with the only decent Baggins left."

Frodo leaned back hard enough into the wall that he waited to hear it creak, but it was silent. He wanted to leap out anyways, to say I'm ready! Take me to meet the elves, to see the mountains! Real magic, and not just fireworks! But he waited.

"I do not have any adventures for Frodo. And I hope I never do."

"Good, good..."

"But Bilbo... I would not be so assured that he'll never find one. He has more of that desire than you did when I brought all that trouble to your door. He won't want to stay in the Shire forever."

Even without being able to see him, Frodo could easily recognize by his voice that his uncle was pacing the kitchen, "Of course, and my fault for telling him all those stories. I'll admit it! One day. One day, of course, I'll take him on a lazy trip to Rivendell, with no rush or danger."

"No trolls?"

"I should hope not! Though if I go you ought to come with us, in case we're in need of you."

"What would you need of an old fool?"

"Well, you have to show up in the first place if you want to disappear inconveniently, and we might also need you to club some poor goblin over the head with that cane of yours."

Another silence, but this time it felt warm, as if laughter by now was redundant between the two. Frodo relaxed against the wall and wished they could all leave now, or he could cut the weak and invisible thread that held him by the ankle to the Shire, that nevertheless held him fast. He was, as Bilbo would have told him to his deep annoyance, too young to know the thread was a love of home.

"I would enjoy that someday, very much. How is Frodo in the here and now?"

"Oh, as bright and cheerful as always, which as you know, worries me."

"Would you rather he mope about?"

"No, no, but I know he does it sometimes only _because_ he doesn't want to worry me. And those friends of his, Merry and Pippin, they're friendly enough, but they're as inconsistent and blockheaded as a crew of sparrows. Which is exactly how friends are at that age, but... Frodo's a deep thinker. He needs someone who feels as deeply as he does. Goodness, I was more like those troublesome friends of his at this age, I barely had a real thought pass through my head until I was 39!"

"Do you have someone in mind?"

"Ah," Frodo clearly imagined his uncle waving his hands, as if wafting away some crumbling scheme, "I did, but it's not to be forced."

"Hm. Sensible."

"I can see you trying not to smile, or pretending that you're trying-- it's you who does all the meddling! Don't laugh, I'm sensible enough! But still. It's a sad thing to lose a friendship, especially one that never had a chance to start."

Gandalf's voice was kinder now, and Frodo snuck quietly back to bed as he listened to it with a hundred new thoughts in his head and an ache in his gut, "Yes. I would say so."

-

The next morning, Frodo lay in bed. He blinked at the ceiling, and let his chest lift his blanket as he breathed. He waited, until he heard the rare loud laughter of Gandalf in the parlor, and then he rolled over and looked out the window. It was already bright outside, but the birds were still singing.

He dressed, and went to the parlor, where Gandalf was still sitting in Bilbo's favorite armchair, barely able to fit. He winked at Frodo as he walked in, and nodded his head towards the kitchen where Bilbo was running back and forth.

"How late did we talk last night? We couldn't have possibly eaten all my food... Oh, no no no, this is nightmarish, I've been caught with no breakfast... You mind the house and distract Frodo when he wakes up, I'll run out and beg the neighbors-" Bilbo walked out into the parlor, and noticed that Frodo was leaning against the back of the armchair and smiling to match Gandalf, "Oh. Well, good morning, Frodo, we're all going to starve to death."

Frodo laughed as loud as Gandalf had earlier. There was a knock on the door, and he startled, and looked at Bilbo with the same smile but wide eyes.

"Oh, Frodo, it's probably Sam... I'll go--"

"It's alright. Go get some food, I'll let Sam in."

Bilbo froze in the doorway, and Gandalf cleared his throat from where he still sat.

"Ah. Alright. Wonderful idea."

Frodo bit back laughter on his way to the door, and threw it open with a gusto that was dramatic to the point of defensiveness. Sam stood there stunned, and blinked and looked back and forth at his feet. Frodo felt spitefully friendly. He embraced it.

"Samwise! It's been awhile."

"Uh, hello, Mister Frodo. Good morning. I'm just checking in with Mister Bilbo-"

"My uncle has to run out and steal some food from the neighbors," Bilbo ran past Frodo and Sam, putting on his jacket, "oh, there he goes!"

Bilbo called out as he rushed down the garden path, "Hello, Master Gamgee, help yourself to the crumbs in the pantry!"

The two of them watched him hurry off past the garden fence, until Sam turned back to look at Frodo, who only grinned with something less than kindness, and pushed himself off the doorframe and gestured to be followed. Sam was left in a position where it'd be ruder to get to work than to come inside. He closed the front door behind him.

"Sam, you remember Gandalf?"

Gandalf stood up from the armchair, and gave a slight bow, "Ah, I remember you. You liked the fireworks that looked like willows the best. How is your family?"

Sam blinked, surprised, "Oh! Oh, they're well. Thank you."

Gandalf's eyes twinkled, "I do hope you remember me, Master Gamgee."

"It'd be hard to forget you, Gandalf," Frodo had reflexively disappeared into the kitchen and came back out empty-handed, "Bilbo wasn't kidding about there being nothing to eat for breakfast."

"There's really no food at all?" Gandalf moved away from the chair and gestured without looking for Sam to sit down in it.

"Well, there's food, but it's for lunch and dinner. We can't go eating that now and leaving us in the same trouble later in the day."

"I suppose you're right," Gandalf cast a grin at Sam, who still stood cautiously near the armchair and was too tense to play along.

Frodo put his hands in his pockets. He nodded at nothing in particular. He realized that he had wanted to be bold, wanted to run headfirst into this unnamed problem as an insult to it, and now he was standing in the same room as it with no idea what to do. He looked at Gandalf sharply, with a forcibly calm and expectant smile, and Gandalf simply smiled knowingly back at him. There would be no help from him. He looked sideways at Sam, who was still standing nervously in front of Bilbo's armchair as if he'd been told amiably to carry it away and steal it.

"Sam, I-"

He was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and closing, quietly and quickly, and Bilbo soon ran hurriedly into the living room.

"Everyone! Everyone, away from the windows! Please!"

He spoke in a frantic hush, and hid behind the sofa. He beckoned Sam to crouch down on the floor. Gandalf drifted towards the doorway of the kitchen and curved, amused and curious, against it. Frodo knelt down behind the writing desk.

"Uncle-"

"It's those Sacksville-Baggins! A classic siege. They're trying to starve us out. I won't be able to get past the gate without them seeing me."

Gandalf; "We need a distraction."

"Your fireworks! We'll get an excellent angle from the kitchen window."

"That is not a safe use of my fireworks... although creative."

Frodo risked a glance at Sam during this back and forth, expecting to see frustration, or perhaps some kind of fear, exasperation at being dragged into the Baggins morning. Sam was only crouched peacefully, looking back and forth to Bilbo and Gandalf. He caught Frodo looking at him- and smiled weakly.

"Well, if you won't fire a rocket at my extended family, then what do you propose we do for food?"

"We could eat what's left."

"And have lunch for breakfast? And nothing for lunch? This is why you're trouble."

"You could go out there, and distract them, while your nephew and his friend go out the back window."

"Only if you go with me. You unnerve them, and they'll be easier to deal with if you're haunting my shoulder."

"Of course."

-

And so Frodo wordlessly led Sam to his bedroom, with the window still pouring sunlight in, and opened it and climbed out. Sam followed. They crawled out onto the grassy lawn level with the sill, and could hear Bilbo giving a raucous greeting on the other side of the burrow. Sam seemed to be ready to say something, towards the sound of Bilbo's voice, but Frodo was already walking down the green slope and towards the dirt path.

Sam caught up, and they walked side by side, heads down, maybe to look for rocks to kick as if they were younger than they were. It was still early enough that the birds were in dominion, flittering about and inspecting the ground while it was damp and cool.

They had to take the long winding way that drew close to the forest, and against the tall spines of the trees, Sam felt that he wasn't so worried. In the wholeness of the world, another hobbit's opinion wasn't always such a scary thing.

"Are we going to be able to carry everything back or should I get a wheelbarrow?" He meant to joke, but Frodo gave him a questioning look.

"You don't actually mean to come with me, do you?"

"Your uncle sent us-"

"Gandalf said, 'and his friend'. I wouldn't force that title or this chore on you," Frodo continued walking, and was already a few feet ahead before he realized Sam had stopped.

He turned to look behind him. Sam must have been unrecognizable; he was angry. The look of surprise on Frodo’s face was quickly changed to disdain. 

"You're still here. I expected you to disappear again."

Sam thought this statement over, and then crossed his arms with an imperious and rough kind of pride, "You're a real brat, aren't you, Mister Baggins?"

The mask of detachment broke, and Frodo stepped forward, "I beg your pardon?"

"Well," Sam looked at the ground, and then back up with renewed confidence, "You disappear quite often yourself! Conveniently too. Always seemed to blow away in the wind just as I was walking up."

"I-- You did it first!"

"Because I have better things to do than watch you terrorize the town!"

Frodo lifted a finger, "Hold on, that was Merry and Pippin, not me--"

"Your family!"

Frodo drew back and put his hand down. Sam sensed a much realer anger than before, something colder than his own.

"What's wrong with my family?"

"Your cousins are a nuisance! And you just think it's funny, and throw some money over it--"

Frodo glowered, "Would it be better if I left them to get in trouble?"

"Yes! Maybe! Instead of always bailing them out of it!"

"What business is it of yours?"

"Why, because I'm just the gardener?"

"No, because you already _have_ a family!"

Frodo had yelled this so loudly that a dog had started barking from someone's yard. The sound of a door opening and someone shushing it could be heard in the new silence between them. Sam was thinking, trying to outline everything since that day in the garden, when Frodo had walked on his knees in the mud, trying to offer him his coat in the rain. How had he forgotten? Or, had he only brushed it aside as some joke at his expense, and told himself it was some prank he had been foolish enough to mistake for kindness? He thought about his busy home, he thought about what it'd be like if it was just him and Gaffer, him and the occasional visit from two brothers who crashed in and out of town. 

"Oh."

"Don't look like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're thinking about... I know what everyone says about the Baggins."

Sam shook his head, quieter, "I know. But I don't believe nothing like that."

"Then that day in the market--"

"Like I said. I just thought you were all annoying."

Frodo looked at him, narrowing his eyes but smiling, and then burst into laughter. Sam felt a long weight, one he had grown used to and forgotten existed, leave his chest.

"Alright. So we are. I'll try to control them more, but maybe we'd be less trouble if you'd join us and split it four ways instead of three."

In place of the weight, Sam remembered his old shyness," I-- Me? I don't think--"

"I can help you with the gardening if you're too busy. And then you'll have time to be your age with us."

Sam watched him with somber suspicion, waiting for a laugh at his expense; but Frodo just tilted his head and waited for an answer.

"Why would you want me to come along?"

"You seem sensible. And like you could use a chance to be annoying."

Sam hesitated, but nodded, "Alright."

"Alright."

Frodo turned and walked down the path again, and Sam caught up and they walked side by side.

-

-

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> security cam footage of trust-fund frodo baggins licking a donut and putting it back in the display case


	3. Chapter 3

Now Sam's days at the garden were greeted by both Bilbo and Frodo, sometimes only the latter as the other attended some business elsewhere or focused on his writing. Frodo was suddenly nervously, energetically, eagerly pleased to see him. Bilbo had a more secretive happiness, as if he was enjoying some private joke.

When Sam went home, sometimes later than usual, his mother would remark that he seemed more lively, more bright. His father never said anything about it, but he seemed younger himself, and would smile a small smile at nothing in particular at dinner.

\---

Frodo had mentioned a bit of myth, some lineage of men, and Sam had lifted his head up, squinting at the clouds, before asking, "And wasn't he only king for a few years?"

The surprise of it remained for weeks. Frodo thought it over; of course Sam had been a student of his uncle's, and might know some pieces of stories. It had been such an unexciting kind of knowledge though, something that someone would only remember if they had really cared about more than just the fireworks and dragons.

And it was remarkable, and thoughtless, how little he had initially thought of Sam. He had remembered the easy novelty of the first night they had met, and welcomed the return of it. He had not expecting much more.

So it was amazing as the days passed and they grew more comfortable, and Sam made some clever joke, or quoted with no pretension some old poem, or even just sat in a slow, warm silence that shone between them like the surface of a perfectly still lake. Sometimes Sam would say something simple, about his family or the neighbor's cat or a cloud or the way the daylight faded, and Frodo would be stunned at the way he said it. Not with heavy words, not with irony that disguised insecurity, or wit that disguised intention, but just with the weight of real feeling. Sam would say these things and not even realize that Frodo would lay awake thinking about these passing appreciations of lilies of the valley or the shadowy rumble of tree leaves in the breeze. 

He made sure to see Sam everyday, to be there to welcome him into the house, to have food and tea set out, and to follow him out into the garden. He felt afraid that if he was absent for even one day, they would both turn just as skittish as before. Eventually, Sam looked over his shoulder at him while he was working, as Frodo studied a book while leaning up against a fence.

"You know, Mister Frodo, that you don't have to stay here all day everyday. I don't mean to keep your company to myself."

"It's no trouble--"

Sam looked at him sternly, "You've made it clear I'm welcome, and I hope I've made it clear I don't plan on disappearing again," he turned back to the roses, "You're a friend, not a dog."

So Frodo went back to disappearing to the woods to read, or to the fields with Merry and Pippin to smoke and laugh, or inside to ask Bilbo what he was writing down now. Still, he lingered in the garden, even when Sam wasn't there, and a day rarely passed when they didn't see each other.

\---

"Did you know that Sam can't swim?"

"Hm, no, no, I don't think I did," Bilbo was chewing on his pipe and tapping a quill against a scrap of paper on the kitchen table. Frodo flitted from cupboard to drawer to pantry as he got dinner together.

"We went all the way to the river and he didn't even think to mention it until I asked him why he wouldn't get in. He felt bad but said that he didn't mind just sitting on the bank, because I was so excited to go," Frodo shook his head and smiled, "He's ridiculous like that."

He turned, plates in hand, to see if Bilbo was paying attention. He was still sitting at the table tapping the paper, but now he was looking at Frodo with a deeply thoughtful frown.

"Uncle?"

"Oh? Nothing. I was just realizing something," and he smiled, distracted at first and then beaming, "Something good, I hope."

\---

Sam had taken some time at the Proudfoot garden, helping look for a missing puppy that had made the youngest daughter inconsolable. He had found the dog, without expecting to, behind a piece of stray wood against the shed. It had whimpered at him, bit him with no harm through his gloves, and then squirmed with unexpected strength out of his arms when it saw its master, a tearstained child. She had picked it up and hugged it to her chest; he left in a hurry, walking backwards to bow out of the offers of staying for lunch. He was late.

He showed up to Bag-End covered in dirt, a spiderweb in his hair, leaves in the spiderweb. Frodo was smoking at the garden gate, leaning against it. His face lit up. He opened the gate and ushered Sam in. The smile twisted, the way it did when he was trying not to laugh but was about to tease. He picked a leaf out of Sam's hair.

"Where were you?"

"The Proudfoots needed some help," he kept walking, and adjusted his bag over his shoulder. Frodo followed behind him.

"With what? Burying you alive?"

"They lost a puppy. It's found, it's alright."

"I bet you found it."

Sam let himself smile, "I might have."

Frodo's hand brushed against his knuckles with no meaning, no intention, "Trying to be so humble. The parents will forget but I bet you the little ones will always love you."

Something vibrated deep in his stomach, faintly, like a harp string that had not been touched in a very long time. He could not follow it to the source, could not tell what had it touched it off. Frodo was talking again, inviting him inside for tea despite the late hour, and he left the thought behind.

-

He was determined for Pippin and Merry to befriend Sam, and for Sam to see past the cloud of pipe weed-smelling chaos they carried with them everywhere. He had complained to Bilbo that it didn't make sense that they shouldn't all be close friends.

Bilbo had said with a frustratingly smug sense of mystery, "The problem is that it makes perfect sense."

His cousins were in the front garden, bickering over the heat while they waited for Sam.

"Why can't we just wait inside? Frodo?"

Frodo searched through the motion of people moving until he saw the familiar head of hair that was Sam's, his heavy shoulders, his downturned gaze that that only lifted to say a brief hello when someone hailed him. He was still so far away, just coming from behind the corner of the road that was hidden by the butcher's home, and Frodo thought of all the times he had seen Sam in the distance and been able to look away. Now he followed his path towards the house carefully. He watched him adjust the strap of his bag, and stop to help someone losing their grip of a large bag of vegetables. At one point, still not knowing that Frodo was watching from Bilbo's garden, Sam was bold enough to brush a tender hand over the leaves of some black sage pushing through a fence.

Merry's head appeared at Frodo's shoulder, "What are you looking at so hard?"

Pippin was at his other ear, "Aye, I think maybe he smoked all the leaf before we even got here. Terrible hosts, the Baggins."

Frodo realized his mouth had fallen open just slightly, but before he could respond, Sam was close enough to notice the three of them in the garden. He raised his hand in a wave, in two stalling motions. Frodo was smiling in a half-laugh before he knew it, and he ran to the garden gate seeing the way Sam's eyes darted to Merry and Pippin's faces in cautious glances, and feeling Merry and Pippin's suddenly knowing eyes on his back.

He found it all petty and ignored them. Instead he simply marked a victory in seeing them all together as he pushed them through the front door.

-

Sam sat on the bank smoking as Frodo rose and sank in the clear water of the river. Part of him wanted to warn and fret, about fast currents and creatures, but it felt like Frodo was as likely to be struck by a bolt of lightning on a clear day than be troubled by the water. Even so, Sam was not as relaxed as his closed eyes and crossed legs suggested. His ears followed the sounds of Frodo’s splashing, listening for signs of distress, or sudden and prolonged silence. 

_What would you do if he was in trouble? Walk into the river and drown with him?_

His only response to this thought was to puff on his pipe, the way his dad did when he or his brothers asked a question he thought the answer was obvious to.

Eventually, to his deep relief, Frodo climbed out of the river and dried himself with his jacket before changing back into his clothes. Sam watched him contentedly without moving as Frodo appraised a tree and began to climb up it. He settled in the crook of it, and sighed. Sam closed his eyes again. He felt like he was close to drifting off, and put the pipe out and away to keep from burning himself. He picked up a leaf idly, and scooted towards the river’s edge as Frodo spoke.

"Why is it that you like my uncle's stories so much?"

Sam set the leaf down on the water, and it was carried away faster than he would have guessed, "Everyone likes his stories."

He turned and watched as Frodo looked up at the canopy filtering light above them, his leg dangling from the branch he sat on, "I mean about the other places, and the adventures. The real stories. You're the only other hobbit he's managed to convince that it means anything."

Sam squinted at him, "You don't think they mean anything?"

Frodo shook his head, still looking up, "No, no... But at first, I didn't really listen. It all seemed pointless."

Sam set another leaf in the water, to follow the other, though it was already too far ahead at this point, "Maybe it was just because you were too young at the time."

"Sam," firm, "we were both the same age. Surely you must have wondered why nobody else took the same interest we have."

The leaf disappeared after the other, and Sam imagined them both being carried far, far away, all the way to the sea, instead of simply falling wayside to some riverbank or caught in the crevice of a boulder. He didn't answer, and Frodo spoke again.

"I'm sorry. I'm being pushy. You don't have to answer."

"No, it's just..." Sam had thought many times about why other people pushed away Bilbo's stories as foolish, as useless. He had never thought about why he hadn't. Everyone was busy, weren't they? With their own lives and work and houses and families, and they didn't have the kind of time that Bilbo did, with his idle hands and empty home. The strange treasures and stories were all he had, other than Frodo.

But Sam, wasn't he busy as well? Didn't he have his own family and work, his own life to mind in the Shire? So he realized that maybe the better question was the one Frodo was asking; not why other people didn't want to know more, but why Sam did.

"I wouldn't know. I love the Shire but... if there's something more to the world, doesn't it make sense to want to see it?"

He looked back up, and Frodo was looking down at him now, smiling softer than his usual grin.

"Maybe not. Maybe you're just special, Sam."

He ducked his head down, "I wouldn't say that."

"If you won't say it then I will! You never give yourself credit."

He laughed, "What would I give myself credit for? I'm just a simple-hearted gardener."

There was a blunt sound of something landing in the dry leaves, and Frodo came and crouched next to him, "And that! You invent so many different ways to turn yourself away. If you have a simple heart, then it's a good thing to have."

Sam focused on the dirt under his nails to avoid thinking about the heat in his face, "Well, what about you? You're something special. And you never act like it. You just-"

He cut himself off. Frodo stopped crouching and sat next to him on the riverbank, close enough to bump their shoulders.

"I what?"

"You just," Sam shook his head, "You just go through life kind of glowing. And nobody ever even tells you, or notices. They should, I think."

There was no reply; he glanced to his side and Frodo had buried his face in his hands.

"Mister Frodo?"

A little laugh escaped the hands, and Frodo put them down. His eyes were hidden by the angle of his head and the cast of his eyelashes. It was unlike him to be so shy.

"Sam..."

"What?"

" _You_ tell me. You notice. That's something," he fell back on the ground, eyes closed and arms folded under his head.

Sam wasn't sure what exactly 'something' meant, but it felt as big and weightless as the gold light that came down all around them through the green leaves. He let it lie, and took in a big breath and spoke in his father's half-serious voice.

"So we've decided. We're both special. I'm sure everyone will be overjoyed to find out."

Frodo laughed, eyes still closed, the laugh of his that bubbled up through his whole frame. Sam watched him, and smiled, shamelessly beaming, and was caught in the act as Frodo opened his eyes. But he only smiled back, the same quiet kind from before.

"I didn't care about Bilbo's stories until my parents died."

Sam's expression changed to something blank. Frodo's smile faded too, and he blinked lazily.

"He would visit me in Brandy Hall. And he told me all those stories and poems and songs again even though I had already brushed them off. He was right to. He knew that I needed to hear them again. I needed to know there was more to the world. There's so much suffering and beauty and heartache that has nothing to do with me. It was good to know. Even though I was still a child and didn't fully understand."

"Frodo..."

"Good. Call me 'Frodo.' I wish you didn't call me 'mister' so often. It makes me feel old. We should go home, before it gets dark and we get lost in the woods together," he blinked and the smile returned. His eyes were dry. Sam didn't remember how to move.

Frodo sat up, and took his hand, and pulled the both of them to their feet. Then his hand slipped away, and Sam watched it swing at his side as he followed him out of the trees.

-

Sam had been thumbing through books of poetry. There had to be words for it somewhere, since there were already so many words thought and written down before he had been born. Sometimes it felt like too many, like everything he wanted to say had already been said, and it would be a cruel joke if now was the first time he couldn't simply open a book and find them.

-

They had all gone out to the woods looking for mushrooms, and by either whim or mischief, Frodo had divided them by unusual lines; he'd taken Merry off with him and left Sam and Pippin alone. Now it was dark, and Sam was more annoyed at Frodo than at Pippin, despite the latter's earnest effort as he persistently suggested paths through scratching branches and stumbled somewhere constantly in the shadows. Sam resolutely marched uphill towards what he thought was the faint and distant glow of houses.

"Don't you think we might go back towards the river and follow that up?"

He had never quite lost his doubt of Merry and Pippin's friendliness. Whether it was because they were simply not around long enough to reassure him, or because it didn't occur to them to reassure him, or because even if they genuinely liked him he couldn't shake his own disdain, it didn't matter. He was lost in the woods, hungry and scraped with no mushrooms and a Took who wouldn't stop talking.

"Sam? The river will lead eventually back to the road, it passes right under the bridge."

"It should just be up this hill."

"Ah," the rustling of Pippin behind him, who was louder than any hobbit should be, and then, "I don't think Frodo's mad at you, if you're worried."

Sam snapped, "Why would I worry that?"

"Oh, because he sent you off with me instead of going with you like he always does. I thought it strange too, but I--"

There was the sound of a branch snapping, a couple of curses, and the sound of brush being crumpled by a rolling body, as Pippin lost his footing and disappeared out of sight back into the brush at the bottom of the hill. Sam ran towards him on instinct, not feeling the thorns that tugged him on the way down.

"Pippin! Pippin, are you--"

Weakly, but steady, "Yes, I'm fine. Embarrassed as a fox in a trap, but--" Sam caught sight of his head peeking out of some ivy, "I think I'll survive after a drink and a few mornings of sleep."

Sam stopped and brought a relieved hand to his chest without thinking; there was a pile of rocks sitting sternly beyond Pippin, and if he had rolled just a little further they would have cracked his head like an egg. He exhaled before interrupting Pippin's rambling about all the rest he'd need.

"Can you walk?"

"Yes, I'm fine, Sam. No wonder Frodo's so fond of you."

Sam had begun walking back up again, but he hesitated for a revealing moment, "What do you mean?"

"Well, I take a tumble and suddenly you're ready to carry me out of here. And you don't even _like_ me much, so you'd probably fight a dragon for Frodo."

"No, I wouldn't," he said, but underneath was the thought, _well, it'd be mighty unkind NOT to if he really needed my help,_ "And I don't dislike you! I just--"

Pippin waited in unexpected silence. Sam rubbed the back of his neck.

"I'm just frustrated right now is all. Sorry if I've been short."

"Think nothing of it!"

Sam pushed aside a branch calmly, "Wait, what were you saying earlier?"

"Hm?"

"About Frodo?"

"He likes you very much?"

His face burned in the dark, "Not that. You said he wasn't mad at me just because--"

"Oh, yes! He probably just wants you and I to be friends, and he doesn't want Merry there distracting me."

Sam shrugged and nodded at nothing in particular, impressed that what Pippin said actually made sense.

"He likes you a lot more than Folco or Denan or anyone else."

He was genuinely curious, "Why do you say that? Did he never introduce you to them?"

"No, he had us all meet years ago! Had a great time with them the second we met them. More fun than we ever have with you."

Sam clenched his fists and continued walking, but Pippin continued on.

"If Frodo didn't like you, he wouldn't push this so much. He doesn't care if we like any of the others. He's different around you than any of them," a stray chord of something other than mindless cheer crept into Pippin's voice, "He's different around you than he even is with us."

The compliment pleased Sam and also broke his heart a little, and all he could do was murmur a soft, "Oh."

"I sleep easier in Buckland knowing he has someone other than Bilbo here," and still Pippin's voice was unusually thoughtful, "You're good for him. He knows it."

"I-- I'm glad. I want to be. Good for him, is what I mean. I…" he trailed off; it couldn't be said, or at least not said well.

Pippin, still out of breath near the bottom of the slope, managed to exclaim as loudly as he could, thoughtfulness gone, "You're in love with him!"

Sam's eyes went animal-wide in the dark, but his voice was almost a sneer, "I'm not."

He heard the crashing footsteps of Pippin rushing and tripping after him, "You know, Merry had his suspicions, but I wasn't sure until now. Oh, I bet we could turn this into a bet. I'll give you half the money if you don't let Merry know until-"

Sam snapped an innocent branch without meaning to.

"So what? The both of you like to make fun of me?"

"What? No," Pippin confusion sounded innocent, "We had a guess at it, but mostly we felt a bit bad for you."

Sam turned around, and Pippin was now right behind him, half-panting, face to face, "Why? Because I'm hopeless?"

Pippin's face only twisted further, "What? No. Because Frodo's useless."

Sam's anger retreated, and he leaned back, "What?"

"Oh, well, we love him, but he's fickle, isn't he? He's always trying to be somewhere else, even just in books. I don't mean to say I know where his heart is, mind you, but I know his head is never here."

Sam looked off at the ground, "That's... He wouldn't be..."

"He wouldn't be Frodo otherwise. And he'll grow up someday, like we all will, and he'll be different then. But still. It'd be hard to love the Shire and someone who always wishes they could leave it. That's all."

Sam turned around and continued walking up between the trees. They thinned out at the top, and like he'd guessed, above this slope would be the road and the flat expanse of the edge of town. He said nothing. Pippin continued talking, and his voice was almost timid.

"... You know that me and Merry don't think of you so cruelly, right, Sam?"

Sam finally set a heavy foot on the flat edge to heave himself up out of the woods, and he turned with a sigh. He reached out a hand to Pippin, who in the slight light from the pub nearby looked young and tired.

"I know."

Pippin's face lit up, in that kind of joy that Sam had always thought was so careless before, "Ah, good. You had me worried. Hey, do you feel itchy?"

-

Frodo had been pleased with his scheme to let Sam and Pippin talk without him or Merry to lean on. It was once he and Merry were out of earshot that he sensed a stare on the back of his neck and worried he’d fallen into his own trap.

“So,” Merry had said, as to a rabbit in a snare, “Sam is a good fellow.”

“Yes,” Frodo spoke slowly, “He’s very polite.”

“Very loyal.”

Frodo spared him a squint in the fading light; the warm weather had made him forget how night was arriving earlier and earlier. They’d have to head back soon.

“If you have something to say, Merry—“

“You’re not teasing him, are you?”

“What do you mean?” He almost laughed, but Merry folded his arms.

“Well, are you serious about him?”

Frodo scowled, and shook his head, “I-- What are you--”

“Are you?”

He scoffed. It was ridiculous and made him feel like a Sacksville, but it was what he did without thinking. If possible, he wanted to avoid thinking. 

“I don’t know where to start. If you’re trying to imply something about Sam--”

“I’m not implying anything about _him._ ”

Frodo flinched. Merry sighed, and his posture relaxed. He still frowned.

“I just… Have you thought about the future at all?”

“That’s a little funny coming from you.”

“ _I’m_ not courting the family gardener.”

“Hold on a minute, I’m not courting--”

“That’s the problem, Frodo,” Merry threw his hands up, “If you’re not courting him then what are you doing?”

“We’re just friends.”

“Tell him that. He’ll spend thirty years following you around and have nothing to show for it.”

Frodo though about Sam saying _You’re a friend, not a dog,_ “Sam’s not like that.”

“I’m not saying he’s dumb. I’m saying,” Merry shook his head, “He’s not like us. No, I don’t mean the gardener thing. I like Sam. Even if he's no fun. I mean that you need to either commit or cut him loose so he can find someone who will.”

Frodo swallowed thickly, and kicked aside some dead thatch near his feet. The dirt was light and dry underneath it.

“It’s not like that.”

“Then he should know. It’s only fair.”

-

At the next village party, Sam close enough that their elbows kept brushing when they lifted their drinks, Frodo leaned in close. 

“Rosie’s been watching you all night.”

Sam had leaned his cheek towards him automatically, but now he stretched back to look at him. He looked amused, then only uncertain.

“How do you mean?”

“She likes you. You should talk to her.”

It was dark outside, and the torchlights flickered hypnotically. It was hard to see the expressions that crossed Sam’s face as he lowered his head and stood up from the bench. His voice sounded gruff, as if he was trying to do an impression of his brothers.

“Some other time. I’m not feeling too well.”

Frodo stood up so fast that his cup tipped, but it was empty and only spilled a few drops on the table, “I can walk you home.”

“No. It’s alright. I’ll be there tomorrow though. Same time as always,” and Sam looked up at him for a moment, eyes bright and clear, and Frodo wanted to lean forward but he didn’t want to commit, not yet, not when life was still so young and easy, and then Sam looked away, “Goodnight.”

He watched Sam’s back pass though the crowd and become another shadow among many, and felt he had committed to something else entirely.

-

Bilbo was out in Buckland, shopping for antiques and trading some treasure. Sam had stayed strange since Frodo had mentioned Rosie, but he had also seen Sam watch her more attentively now. The truth was that Rosie _did_ seem to like him, whether Sam believed it or not. Frodo wondered if Merry had noticed it before he had; that it was no uncommon belief in the Shire that Sam was kind, hardworking, gentle. Handsome. Eligible. Too busy sitting on the riverbank while Frodo swam to court anyone interested.

They sat together on Bilbo’s couch in the parlor, surrounded by the familiar yet ever-changing piles of open books, maps, parchments, drying inks, cups of empty tea, the occasional jacket laid aside, dry flowers. Frodo helped keep things clean, and knew from Bilbo the best ways to organize and preserve the condition of everything, but he couldn’t bear to put any of it away in cupboards and drawers. He had done it once, immaculately, and the room had felt barren until a month had passed. All the detritus had slowly moved back in, like new growth after a forest fire.

They had been half-gossiping about Pippin kissing a Proudfoot and loudly thinking he had entered the winter of his life because of it, despite being the youngest of them. Frodo had meant to tease, but deep down he realized he was impulsively picking at something, like pulling at a thread that would only end up unravelling a favorite coat.

“You want to kiss Rosie.”

It came out sounding almost stern, but the subtle tragedy was that Frodo thought he was reminding himself, and Sam thought he was being commanded. They both sat in silence on Bilbo’s old familiar and worn-in couch. 

Sam murmured, so softly, and again the meaning of the pain in his voice was lost, “I wouldn’t know how.”

Frodo remembered admitting the same thing, drunk and with a shy laugh to Folco Boffin. How they had been outside the tavern to cool down after drinking more than they’d ever had in their lives, and how Folco had shrugged back and forth at each other until they’d laughed and leaned in to each other. From there, a few folks at the pub or a party. Always a quick moment, always drinking, always friendly and kind and forgotten by the time he’d walked home. It had been a little more fond and sweet and unsatisfying with Folco, because it had been the first time.

“I could--” the thought was unbelievable but the words still slipped through his fingers, “I could show you.”

He saw Sam shiver out of the corner of his eye, a silly and fearful thing that would have been fodder for teasing. He let himself laugh anyways, and leaned back against the couch to look at him even as Sam stayed hunched over, his elbows on his knees, his face turned down towards the pattern of the rug. His voice was unbothered from years of practice.

“That hurts, Sam. We don’t have to. It was how I learned,” _just between friends_ echoed in his head like a coin down a well. 

“Okay.”

Frodo blanched, and Sam turned to face him, both in wide-eyed shock at what Sam had said. He remembered Sam saying years ago the first night they met _I guess it’s not the worst poison I’ve had._ At the time it had both surprised them into laughing. 

Frodo forced his expression back into amusement, but he could feel the fear leaking out. He could tell his eyes were too wide and his breath was too fast, and that all Sam had to do was look at his chest rising and falling in heavy breaths that were at least thankfully silent. If he backed out now, it would be obvious. And what kind of friend would he be, to let Sam out into the world, with a storybook heart that would probably only ever love once, to kiss someone without knowing how?

“Okay.”

Sam wouldn’t meet his eyes, but he turned towards him on the couch, his voice almost sullen, “I-- You’ll have to start.”

“Well, pretend I’m Rosie.”

Sam only lowered his head more. Frodo let himself sound fondly exasperated because he was. 

“Sam. Look at me.”

He did. The serious resolve of his look caused Frodo to lean back. There was something searching in it, and it made the terrible thought that Sam _knew_ even louder. 

“Good. Although you shouldn’t look at her that way, she’ll think you’re about to tell her bad news if you frown like that.”

Sam’s brow broke into a questioning line, and sounded annoyed, “How am I supposed to look?”

A real laugh, and things were almost easy again, “Just look at her like you’re not about to tell her that her favorite pig died.”

Sam glared, “You’re just teasing. Forget it.”

“No, come on,” Frodo rested a hand on his shoulder and pretended it didn’t feel like theft, “If you’re going to kiss someone, just look at them like you’re someone in one of Bilbo’s books. All that glowing and tenderness. The way you look at the flowers.”

Sam's glare paused, and then melted into a kind of quiet openness, still frowning, too melancholy a look to be as close to a small smile as it was. It was not the look he gave the flowers.

“Alright.”

“Alright. Now, you should get a little closer. And you should lean in slowly, to give her time in case she doesn’t want to kiss you.”

“How do I know if she wants to kiss me?”

“She’ll do what I’m doing,” the moment was too bizarre and feverish for the embarrassment to seize him, and Frodo moved closer, his hand on the couch between them, until they were both almost sitting on his knuckles, “She’ll get close to you too. She’ll look at your mouth.”

He looked at his mouth. 

“And?”

“Do it.”

Sam leaned in and pressed against him, eyes open, their noses bumping together painfully. He pulled away scowling.

“That doesn’t seem right.”

“That’s why we’re doing this. Tilt your head, and I’ll tilt mine the opposite,” he lifted his hand towards Sam's cheek, and said with one last smile as they leaned towards each other, "And for goodness sake's, Sam, kiss with your eyes closed."

They met quicker the second time, and he pressed Sam's cheek to tilt his head. Then Sam froze, his mouth slightly open, until Frodo pushed forward. Then Sam moved, and his hands shook until they settled over Frodo’s face, and moved to his jaw, his thumbs at his ears and his fingers curving around his neck. He sighed into him and Frodo made a painful sound, and then Sam pulled away again.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I was just laughing. You’re a quick learner.”

Sam’s eyes lit up, and then again turned away, always turning away, “We should probably stop then.”

Frodo grabbed his wrist, “We don’t have to. If you want.”

Sam might have said something but Frodo didn’t hear over the rushing sound in his ears, and this time Sam held his face and pulled him towards him, and the combination of his rough palms on his cheeks and the being the one kissed distracted him from the way they were pressing too close together. It was certainly too forward a thing for Sam to do with Rosie the first time, and it seemed in the moment too slow a thing between the two of them. There wasn’t a coherent thought in the room, only the pressure of them pushing and pulling against each other.

Eventually the discomfort of his back against the wooden armrest of the couch shook Frodo back to his senses. He pulled away from Sam and felt like he had just crashed through the heavy brush of the woods into an open field; everything seemed touched and in disarray. 

They had gone from sitting to lying down at some point. Sam was above him for a second, looking down at him with his eyes calm and his mouth slightly open, and the rafters of Bag-End above him. The word _home_ echoed in Frodo’s brain like morning light interrupting a dream. And then Sam was off the couch, stumbling into a table, and in the archway to the foyer. His hands fumbled in front of him over an imaginary hat.

“I— thank you. Thank you. I should go. Helpful. I ought to. I’ll—“ he turned to the door, not even waiting to be walked out, and again, “Thank you.”

Then he walked out of view, and Frodo heard the front door open, and close, and then closed his eyes to hear the footsteps down the path. He didn’t hear them. He laid on the couch and touched his lips for a second before pulling them away with a flinch.

He surprised himself with a small chuckle, and then still smiling sadly at the ceiling, said with a crack in his amused voice, ‘Oh no.”

-

Sam stood outside the door of Bag-End and realized he had to walk home now and go to bed, to see his family, to wake up early and go to work. He had to move through life now as if he had not just been thrown around in a storm, like a ship crashing back and forth in an ocean. Tomorrow daylight would insist everything was the same.

He curled his hands into fists. There were faint thoughts floating about his head, ideas of heroes and poems and himself throwing the unlocked door open again and then throwing himself at Frodo’s feet in complete honesty. 

The loudest thought in his head said that kind of thing was for stories. He turned his back on the door and walked home. He brushed tears off his face with the back of his hands without even noticing what he was doing. The sun was almost finished setting.

-

They were still friends. There was some awkward laughter the next time they saw each other, and a hesitation to touch each other that faded over time. Sam still worked in the garden, and Frodo still clapped a hand on his shoulder and walked with him to the pub, and they looked up at the stars or stumbled against the wooden picket fences leaning against each other. Frodo watched Sam watch Rosie.

But they did it all less often. 

-

-

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is really deeply just about frodo being an air sign


	4. Chapter 4

At some point while running for their lives through the dark forest towards the ferry, Merry had given Frodo a knowing and disappointed glance.

Later, in the pub, while Sam and Pippin had gone back to the bar to see all the kinds of beer the humans drank, Merry had squared his shoulders and Frodo had sighed. 

“Oh, Merry, it’s not--”

“You’re dragging Sam with you on this?”

“He’s-- Gandalf made him go.”

Merry sat back on the bench and looked out darkly over the crowd. It was slightly ruined by the foam on his lip. 

“There can’t be anything good waiting in this. For any of us.”

Frodo agreed in the pit of his stomach, where a hole of dread had been since they’d found out Gandalf had not made it to the Prancing Pony, but denied it to himself, “Sam will see the elves. We’ll turn back. I’ll make sure he gets home.”

“I’m not sure that’s something you can promise.”

“Promise what?” Pippin sat down next to Merry, holding two mugs in each hand, and setting them down firmly in front of only himself, while Sam appeared quietly next to Frodo.

The doom in Merry’s voice dissipated like smoke, “To pay our bar tab at the end of the night. I think what we saw tonight is reason enough to finally drink the Baggins into ruin.” 

-

Merry did not know that Sam had already seen the elves. They had been passing through the forest in procession, somewhere beyond the world the two hobbits lived in, where they watched this beautiful and melancholy thing from the leaves. 

“I don’t know why,” Sam had said quietly to him in the blue glow, “but it makes me sad.” 

Frodo hadn’t looked away from the elves, but he had thought, in a dim way he expected to understand better when all this adventure business was over, in a way that after Moria he expected to never let himself acknowledge again, _Oh. I love him._

-

-

-

Frodo set the kettle in the kitchen, and found some cakes that weren’t stale for a plate. Sam was in the backroom looking for an old book that he had suddenly desperately wanted to find, and Bilbo was sitting quiet and finally old in the living room to enjoy the view of the garden. 

“Sam? Sam! The water’s ready.”

There was no response. A part of him that had never worried before was struck like a metal drum. He walked quickly out of the kitchen, with a reassuring glance he didn’t believe at Bilbo, until he reached the doorway of the study that Sam had disappeared into. 

“Sam, did you--”

Sam was sitting at a desk, reading a piece of parchment and not a book. He looked up with a brutal stare and Frodo understood.

“What is this?”

Frodo paused, but chose honesty, “It’s a will.”

Sam looked back down at it, and shook his head, “I know. Why does it say I’m to inherit--” he shook his head one last time and then looked up, “Where are you going?”

Very quietly, “What do you mean?”

“Why wouldn’t you inherit Bag-End?”

Frodo swallowed, “Oh. Oh, Sam.”

Sam put the paper down on the desk, the paper that would have given him property and a home, a home that he deserved and a garden that should have been his in the first place, without looking away from Frodo. He stood up and his voice wasn’t so angry.

“Where are you going?”

“You can’t come.”

“Then you can’t go.”

“Sam--”

“If it’s an adventure I’ll go with you,” Sam took his hands and Frodo had to keep himself from pulling away, even as he dropped his gaze and looked at their hands, at his missing finger. There was something grounding about the shortened finger. It was a sign he carried everywhere that said it had all been real, and somehow it had ended.

“I have no more adventures for you, Sam,” he stroked Sam’s knuckles with his thumbs. 

“Then where are you going?”

He closed his eyes, “I’m going into the West. With Gandalf and Bilbo. With the elves.” 

Sam’s hands squeezed around his own, and Frodo looked up smiling. Despite the tears rolling slowly to his chin, he felt calm. Sam’s face was so close, grounding in the way that the missing finger was not. Grounding and weightless at the same time, even when it looked so distressed.

“Why?”

“To find peace,” he phrased it, “To rest.”

Sam shut his eyes, and pulled his hands away to wipe at his own tears. Frodo waited for him to speak again, but he kept crying, and kept rubbing at his cheeks. He felt like he was cursed to see Sam weep for years. Finally:

“You weren’t going to tell me.”

“I couldn’t,” his voice was barely a breath now; he had been worried that once he said goodbye to Sam, he would never be able to speak again. Maybe it wasn’t so strange a fear after all.

Sam rubbed his chin, and sighed down at the floor as one more tear fell from his eye to the rug. He pulled something out of his pocket, and held Frodo’s hand open so he could place it on his palm.

It was a folded piece of paper. It was worn thin and almost broken at the creases, as if it had been handled over and over. 

“It’s what I was looking for. I-- I wrote it years ago. I didn’t know how else to say it, and I still never did.”

Frodo opened the note, and saw Sam’s handwriting. 

“I carried it around everywhere. Once I was reading it over here, and heard you coming, and I then slammed it shut in an old book in here to hide it from you, and was never able to find it again. I figured if you or Bilbo ever found it I would just lie, or say it was just for fun, or just…”

He trailed off as Frodo willed his brain to actually read the words through the creases and faded ink.

_Flowers balanced on the sunlight in the sill_

_Today I don't think of the growing catacomb_

_And my warm house sits empty in the hill._

_The day's colors set on my soul, the open tome,_

_And never of starlight has my heart had its fill,_

_Alone as I am when my body starts to roam,_

_while the night's cold says 'just wait until-',_

_as always, it's to you who I come home._

He read and reread it, only to hear Sam say, “I know we never actually-- We never lived together. But sometimes it felt like we did. I didn't know how to-- It’s dumb. But I wanted you to see it.”

Frodo didn’t know what else to do; he pressed the paper to his chest, “It’s not dumb.”

They stood in silence in the study. Frodo imagined Sam wringing the note in his hands, folding it and unfolding it. Sam cursing himself and throwing away little balls of parchment, muttering to himself while gardening, the way Frodo knew he did when he wrote other poems. Frodo thought about how little he suddenly liked any other song or story that wasn’t written in Sam’s loose script, with Sam’s voice clearly working and reworking it. Elvish and ancient, Dwarven and golden, human and triumphant, myths, melodies, choruses of divine voices. They all seemed small and meaningless next to this poem that he could only press tighter to his chest. 

“I can’t make you stay. I can’t,” and finally, horrifically, Sam’s voice broke, “I can’t say what’s best for you. But if you stayed… I love you. I love you, Frodo. I have for a long time. I would be with you, if you stayed in Middle Earth. I would have a good life, if we were together. If I could give you peace.”

Frodo sobbed and lifted the paper from his chest, so that he could fall forward and wrap his arms around Sam and press himself against him. He cried into his neck. The calmness left him and he shook, as he murmured into Sam’s collar and Sam’s hands held his back.

“I love you, Sam.”

“Would you stay then? I can't fix it all. But could you try?”

He melted into Sam's arms, and knew that love did not, would not fix everything. Yet it seemed like a blessing, that after chasing something terrible for so long, he was now given the chance to seek something as good as the ring was evil. That evil had perished, and that mountain was far away, it's lands already seeding with wild grass blown from Rohan for the first time in centuries. Flowers were growing over graves, but they were growing. His chest hurt, but it was still his own. Burning alive in the stale air of Mordor, he wouldn't have been so audacious as to expect a world in which Sam and him found their way back to the Shire together again.

“I could.”

-

-

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> physically i know how return of the king ends. spiritually though?
> 
> if you like this and want to appreciate it, please donate to a charity of your own choosing as a tip! preference-wise i would ask you to donate to an immigrant/refugee based charity.


End file.
